Gethsemane
by PsandQs
Summary: Alternative season 10 story. MI5 gets an offer of information about the whereabouts of a notorious terrorist, and must decide whether it is for real or an elaborate trap. Ruth is roped in from her new job at the Home Office to help assess the source of information, which brings unresolved feelings to the surface. And then the Americans get involved - with devastating consequences.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I don't have as much time as I used to for writing, so updates may be a bit slower than usual. This is also the reason why this story will be shorter and less detailed - I will rely on the reader's imagination to fill in the rest.  
**

**- 0 - 0 - 0 -**

_November 2012  
Jerusalem, Israel_

He feels it for the first time in the lobby of the hotel. He stands at the reception desk and asks whether there are any messages for Harry Pearce, when the back of his neck prickles. He is being observed. While he waits for the girl behind the desk to fetch his messages, he half-turns and casually leans against the desk. It gives him a better view of the lobby and his eyes sweep over it in a practiced arc. No-one seems to be overly interested in him, but then, if they were professionals, they won't. A tall, slim figure disappears through the revolving door, and he only gets a glimpse of the back of a dark but greying head.  
"Sir?" the girl says and holds out two slips of paper.  
He accepts them with an absent thank you, and moves towards the doors himself. He is to meet Catherine outside in a few minutes, and she gets annoyed if he's late. The thought elicits a rush of fond memories, of his little daughter standing at the gate of the crèche, arms akimbo and frowning severely, telling him he's late in picking her up. Outside there is no sign of the dark haired man, and he shakes his head. There is no reason that anyone should be interested in him now. He is here to spend some time with his daughter, nothing more. But as Catherine pulls up in her small car, he makes another sweep of the street before he gets in. Just to be sure.

She chats animatedly as they drive along, scouting locations for her latest documentary. Harry does his best to keep up his end of the conversation, but he is distracted. He repeatedly checks the wing mirror, and once or twice he even twists around in the seat and stares out the rear window. When he does it a third time, Catherine snaps, "Dad!"  
He jerks his head back towards her.  
"No one is following us." After a beat she adds, with a note of irritation, "You are no longer a spy."  
She is right, of course. He is no longer a spook, he reminds himself. It is almost a year since he was forced to take early retirement. Since Albany and Lucas/John and Ruth's life in danger. He quickly stops that train of thought, and forces them in the direction of Catherine's perceptiveness. She is sharp and observant, this daughter of his. She would have made an excellent intelligence officer, he thinks. Or perhaps not. She doesn't have his ruthless streak, and he is eternally grateful for that. She is determined but gentle, persistent but compassionate. Like Ruth. The thought comes to him unbidden, and once again he hastily buries it. She is a wonderful person, his daughter.  
"Old habits," he offers in apology, accompanied with a sheepish smile.  
Some of the annoyance leaves her face and she glances over at him. "Must be hard," she says pensively. "I mean, I don't know if I could cope with not making films anymore."  
He stares at her profile, a sudden surge of melancholy flooding him. She is a beautiful human being, in every way, and he can claim no credit for that. All he did was provide the sperm. Some of the credit must inevitably go to his ex-wife, but most of it belongs to Catherine herself. She has become this exceptional creature despite the failings of her parents. He looks away and blinks rapidly; he seems to become more sentimental with each year that passes. Perhaps the Service was right to get rid of him.  
"What about the Via Dolorosa?" he asks, thankful that his voice is steady. "Nothing shows the depravity of making profit from religion more starkly than that stretch of road."  
She agrees, and they find a parking spot and make their way there on foot.

Catherine soon finds a suitable spot in amongst the hawkers selling anything that can be linked to Christ, however tenuously. Crosses in gold, silver and wood. Sandals, like Jesus used to wear. Replicas of the shroud he was wrapped in after his death. Holy water. Harry is tempted to ask the seller whether it will turn into wine. Others sell mere pieces of wood, rather ludicrously claiming it to be from the actual cross the Messiah died on. Harry is about to engage the seller in a debate on the authenticity of his wares when he sees a tall, thin figure out of the corner of his eye. He turns quickly, and this time gets a glimpse of the face before the figure disappears around a corner. It is enough. He finds Catherine again, busy calculating angles, light and other cinematic things he understands nothing of.  
"You should also visit Mecca during Hajj," he says, surveying the swarming multitudes around them. "Christianity isn't the only religion that exploits its followers."  
Catherine shakes her hair out of her eyes. "I plan to do so," she responds. "I'm still looking for a guide, though. Someone who knows their way around and speaks the language. And who isn't prejudiced against women."  
"I may be able to help with that," Harry says, scanning the crowds once more for that thin face. "I still have a few contacts."  
Catherine beams. "Brilliant. Thanks Dad."  
Harry nods, and makes a decision. "Listen, love, you do your thing and I'll meet you later for lunch. I'm tired of the crowds; I think I'll go for a stroll in Gethsemane."  
"But we were there yesterday," she frowns, tilting her head and eyeing him somewhat suspiciously.  
So very perceptive, his wonderful daughter.  
"Yes, and it's about the only quiet place in this whole city," he responds, holding her eyes, knowing it's the only way to persuade her that he isn't up to anything.  
After a beat she nods, and they agree a time and place for lunch before he sets off.

Once he is out of her sight, he drops a coin and bends to pick it up. As he does so, he glances behind him, in time to see the tall figure turn away down an alley. He nods to himself, picks up the coin and continues on his way, without looking back.

- 0 –

_Thirty minutes later  
The Garden of Gethsemane_

He strolls between the olive trees, meandering his way towards the Mount of Olives. They explored the place thoroughly yesterday, and he knows each twist in the footpath he is now following. He knows exactly where he will lay his trap, because by now he is convinced that he is being followed. As he walks, he makes a mental inventory of everything he has on him. What can be used to do damage? Not for the first time, he curses the advent of keycards. A solid, serrated key would have been very handy right about now. But he doesn't have one. In fact, he has very little. Not even a pen. He has a cloth handkerchief, some paper receipts, a wrapped mint. No, he doesn't have much at all. Wallet with a handful of coins in it, watch, shoes. That's it. It will have to do.

He heads towards the ablutions, and once inside he works swiftly. He quickly checks that he is alone, before putting down the lid on one of the loos and spreading the handkerchief open on it. Next he pours the coins from his wallet in the centre, and ties the corners together. Holding it by the knot, he tests its weight. Swung hard enough, it will do sufficient damage to give him a chance. He drops it into his pocket, flushes and washes his hands. While he does so, he studies himself in the mirror. The cold focus he used to see in his own face each morning for more years than he cares to remember, is back. He is good at this, no matter what the Service has said. He allows a momentary flash of anger, before bringing his focus back to the present. The ball of coins lies snugly against his thigh, and he walks back into the sunlight. It is getting towards midday and the heat is building up. The sharp light bleeds the colour from the landscape and he narrows his eyes against it. He heads for the farthest corner of the garden, where the olive trees are older and bigger. He is thankful for the shade they offer. There is no-one else around; most visitors are drawn towards the parts where there are restaurants and play areas. He soon reaches his destination – a long, head-high hedge that runs parallel to the perimeter of the garden. About halfway down there is a small gap in the hedge, and he squeezes into it, the ball of coins in his hand. Now he waits.

For long minutes there is nothing. He strains his ears for any sound that does not fit into the far-off drone of traffic, the birdsong or the buzz of insects that form the natural audio backdrop. Sweat trickles down his spine and his nose itches, but he does not move. And then he hears it – the crunch of a foot on the gravel path. And another. They are slow and careful, circumspect as they move down the lane. He takes hold of the knot in the handkerchief so that the ball of coins dangles from his fingers, like a very short club. The footsteps pull abreast of him and he slowly turns his head to see the tall, thin man walk past, his eyes scanning forwards anxiously. He has a short beard, much greyer than his hair, and hawk-like features. He does not see Harry. Once he is two strides past, Harry steps out behind him, swinging the coins in a downward arc. The man begins to turn, but he is too slow, and Harry catches him smartly behind the right ear. He staggers, grunts in surprise, and then his knees buckle and he crumples to the ground. Harry stands over him, breathing fast in an effort to control the rush of adrenaline. He looks around, but there are no witnesses. Crouching down, he checks the man's pulse, and is relieved to find it strong and regular. A quick but thorough pat-down produces a long dagger and a stiletto. Taking the slumped form under the armpits, he pulls him off the path and behind some shrubs, and sits down on a nearby stone to wait, the dagger dangling from his hand.

- 0 –

_Two days later  
London, Home Office_

Ruth is putting the finishing touches to the Home Secretary's briefing notes for the JIC meeting later that morning when Towers appears in his door.  
"Ruth, can I have a word?"  
She follows him into his office, and is surprised to find Erin Watts there already. Usually when Towers meets with Harry's successor, she is briefed and included in the discussions.

It is a strange set of circumstances that saw her leave the Grid. After Harry was forced out she initially stayed on, braving the looks she received in the corridors. She understood; she was after all the reason Harry found himself out in the cold. But she didn't like it, didn't like being on the Grid when he was no longer there. This last part came as a surprise to her. After telling herself for so long that they were only meant to have a close relationship at work, she now finds herself wishing for more. Wondering if she has made a terrible mistake in keeping him at arms length all these years. She misses him terribly. Which is why she grabbed the opportunity to leave with both hands. Not long after Harry left, The Home Secretary approached her and offered her the position of Intelligence Advisor in his office. She has been here for nine months, and she is good at it. There is a lot less pressure than on the Grid, even though Towers demands high standards. She no longer feels that crushing responsibility for the safety of the country, and at first she was thankful for that. But in all honesty, she has begun to miss even that of late. She finds that she also misses the rush of elation that accompanied each success, when she knew she had played her part in saving lives. The impact she can have from her new position is much less direct, but she is determined to make the best of it.

Erin greets her civilly, and Ruth smiles back. She has no issues with Harry's replacement. She does her job well, although she is still searching for the correct balance between toeing the line and doing what needs to be done to stop the bad people.  
Towers gets straight to the point. "Ruth. Your old crowd has requested your assistance for an operation, and I have reluctantly agreed to lend you back to them for the duration."  
The old, familiar mix of dread and excitement settles deep in her stomach as she absorbs the news. "What's it about?" she asks Erin, not without some apprehension.  
"Does the name Imad Mughniyah mean anything to you?" Erin responds, and Ruth feels cold.  
"He was the Osama bin Laden of the 1980s, responsible for numerous terror acts and kidnappings against Western targets in Lebanon. He bombed the American embassy in Beirut in 1983."  
Erin smiles, pleased by the extent of Ruth's knowledge. "That's correct. He simply vanished in the late eighties, and neither we nor the Americans could find him." She pauses briefly. "We've had an offer of information about his whereabouts."  
Ruth looks between Erin and Towers. "I'm sorry, but I don't see what you would need me for?"  
"The problem is that we don't quite trust the source of the information," Erin explains. "We need you to meet with him and evaluate the situation."  
It still doesn't make sense to Ruth – surely there are serving officers more suited to this task?  
Frowning, she asks, "Who's the source?"  
Erin glances at Towers before she says carefully, "Harry Pearce."

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_Home Office, London_

Ruth stares at Erin, speechless. That is the last name she expected to hear. A flush creeps up her neck as she says, "And here I was thinking that you wanted me for my professional ability."  
Towers winces at the barb. "Ruth, just-"  
"No!" she says vehemently, before taking a breath and continuing more calmly. "The only reason you want to use me is because of the personal connection between Harry and myself." She turns to Erin. "And in any case, why would you doubt Harry?"  
The spook watches her closely, and chooses her words carefully. "Because we have had many a retired officer, unable to cope with life outside of the Service, come with fabricated offers of information in an attempt to get back into the fold."  
There is an uncomfortable silence until Ruth says, "And you think Harry is one of these."  
Once again Erin glances at Towers before she answers. "Personally? No. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing he would do. But then I've never met the man, and have learnt the hard way that it is dangerous to judge an officer on his reputation alone. We have to be sure, and you are best placed to make that judgement."  
Ruth turns to Towers, her expression almost pleading, and his heart goes out to her. "Ms Watts informs me it will only be one meeting. You question him about Mughniyah, and give your honest opinion whether the information is real, and that's it." He takes a step towards her. "It's important. Relations with our American cousins have cooled somewhat of late, but if we can deliver this man to them, it will go a long way in patching it up."  
Ruth looks down at her hands; she understands the importance of the operation, but she is a little resentful of the manner in which he and Erin ambushed her into it. He is more like Harry than he knows, she thinks savagely, before she gives a curt nod.

- 0 –

_Next day  
The Embankment, London_

Ruth takes her time to make her way to the meeting spot, trying to sort through her own feelings. It is an impossible task. She is nervous, not only about her ability to make a sound judgement of the situation as asked, but also about the reception she is likely to get. There is so much unsaid, so much unresolved between her and Harry, and she is more confused than ever. Time and distance has not clarified anything for her; it has not dampened her feelings for Harry, and it has not tempered her conviction that it can never work.

She spots him from a long way off and her steps slow involuntarily. He is seated on a bench, looking out over the Thames pensively. She studies his profile, takes note of the darker hue of his skin. The morning sun catches his hair, cut short and neat, and it glints gold in the rays. There is a little more grey interspersed than she remembers. He is casually but fastidiously dressed in jeans, button-down blue shirt and dark jacket.  
He looks good.  
The realisation comes to her suddenly and gives her pause. She is somewhat ashamed; deep down, she expected him to struggle out in the real world. It formed a large part of her argument against a shared future for the two of them, but standing there, looking at his lovely face, she is forced to contemplate the possibility that she may have got it wrong. With that thought very much at the forefront of her mind, she forces her feet into motion again and covers the last few metres separating them.

Harry looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and she sees the shock plainly on his face at the sight of her. But it is only visible for a split-second, before he carefully wipes away any expression and stands. When she looks into his eyes, though, they are a maelstrom of intense emotion, and she has to force herself not to look away.  
"Hello, Harry," she says as she comes to a stop in front of him, her voice a tad hoarse.  
"Ruth, this is a surprise," he responds gruffly. His eyes sweep the street behind her once, then again, before they return to her and travel over her slowly. It is such an uncharacteristic move on his part that she immediately understands. He is not ogling her.  
"I'm not wired, and there is no surveillance," she says, striving to keep her voice even.  
His eyes come back to hers and a strained smile lifts the corners of his mouth. "I would be very surprised – and a little disappointed in my replacement - if that were the case," he states, but there is no resentment in the words. He knows how it works.  
He looks even better up close and her next words are out before she truly realises what she is saying. "It's good to see you, Harry."  
The comment catches him off-guard, and he watches her wordlessly for endless seconds. At last he says softly, "I would be rather surprised if that were true as well."  
The words sting and she looks away, unable to cope with the intensity of his hazel eyes, so very beautiful in the morning light. She hears him sigh softly and then he says, "Shall we sit? Easier for the watchers to monitor our conversation than if we walk."  
Ruth looks back at him, about to reiterate that there is no surveillance, but lets it go. Perhaps he is right; perhaps there is surveillance that she was not informed about. He stands, waiting until she sits at one end of the bench, before he settles himself on the other end. The gap between them feels as wide as the Atlantic.

"I assume that your presence here indicates that there is doubt as to the veracity of the information I'm offering," he says, his eyes guarded.  
_He knows_, she thinks, that she has been sent here to unsettle him. It was a stupid idea; they should never have tried it. She should have known better. He was too good a spook to be caught out by this.  
"It was a mistake," she acknowledges, meeting his unwavering scrutiny head-on.  
His eyes narrow slightly, and after a beat he relents. "It's what I would have done," he confides with a quirk of the mouth. "Ms Watts has potential."  
His knowledge of everything that has changed since he left somehow does not surprise her, and she smiles slightly in return. "Hmm. William- the Home Secretary seems to think so."  
There is a slight tensing in his shoulders at her slip, and he turns his head away, looking back out over the river. He doesn't like the fact that she is using Towers' first name, she realises, and is caught unawares by the warmth that spreads through her abdomen at the thought. When he speaks, his voice is curt and it strengthens her suspicion; his feelings for her are as strong as ever.  
"Well, let's cut to the chase, shall we? No use dragging things out unnecessarily."  
She has a sudden urge to take his hand, to comfort him, but she doesn't. She has made her bed, she must sleep in it. Instead she says, "For the record, I don't doubt you. You would never bring information you know is false. You're too much of a patriot for that."  
He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, but doesn't respond to her comment. He simply begins to tell his story.

"A few days ago, during a visit to my daughter in Israel, I became aware that I was being followed. When an opportunity arose I… confronted the man."  
He glances at her, and the knowing look on her face tells him she probably knows exactly what he means.  
"It was Jamil Berbera, Imad Mughniyah's second-in-command in Hezbollah before they both disappeared without trace."  
Ruth frowns. "Big risk for a Hezbollah operative to move around openly in Israel."  
"Indeed. He looks quite different now," he adds in explanation, before continuing. "Back in the eighties I met with him on one occasion during negotiations for the release of a British citizen they were holding hostage."  
A smile escapes as Ruth says, "Ah yes, it was during the time Margaret Thatcher used you as her personal errand boy, wasn't it?"  
Harry lifts an eyebrow, and Ruth realises belatedly that she has just given away the fact that she has looked at his personnel file. His _classified_ personnel file. He doesn't comment on it.  
"Berbera said he was in Israel to seek medical help for his granddaughter. He recognised me and saw an opportunity."  
He looks at her. "He offered to give up Mughniyah in exchange for medical care for the girl in the West."

Ruth waits, but Harry says nothing more. Silence settles over them and she takes her time to think through the information. Somehow, sitting in silence with him never discomfits her, and she seldom has the urge to fill the silence with inane words the same way she does when with other people.  
"Do you believe him?" she asks at length.  
Harry nods. "I do."  
"Could be a trap. It would be quite a coup to capture a senior British Intelligence officer," she ventures, and Harry glances at her.  
"_Former_ senior British Intelligence officer," he corrects, and she drops her gaze.  
"If that were his aim," he continues, "why not snatch me right then? Why give me a chance to put safety measures in place before the next meeting?"  
She inclines her head, acknowledging the logic behind his argument.  
"What's wrong with the girl?"  
"They don't know," Harry responds. "Apparently she is in constant pain, and is losing weight rapidly. She can't eat anything without getting sick."  
Ruth's heart goes out to the child as Harry continues, "His desperation was palpable when he talked about her. The offer is real."

Her gaze follows a lone man walking his dog along the opposite bank whilst she mulls things over. Intelligence is seldom a certain business, and she knows it will be impossible to know for sure. What they will have to decide, is whether the possible reward outweighs the obvious risks.  
"How will it work?" she asks eventually, and feels him relax slightly. "Will he give us the location only after the girl has been treated?"  
Harry shakes his head. "He is willing to deliver Mughniyah first, and in return we will treat the girl."  
He sees her surprise. "Like I said, he is desperate."  
"So he is going to rely on us keeping our word, just like that?" she asks incredulously, and he smiles thinly.  
"Not quite. He wants to take me to meet his mysterious boss, and I can wear a tracker." He pauses. "I'm his security policy," he adds quietly.  
Ruth stares at him, shocked and alarmed. The danger he will be in doesn't bear thinking about. "Harry-" she begins, but he cuts her off.  
"I'm willing to do it. I believe Berbera," he reiterates, "and I think I will be safe as long as everyone sticks to the agreement. So talk to Towers and Ms Watts, and let me know what they decide. I assume they'll want to allocate a babysitter, and that's fine. But tell them," he says, leaning towards her and pinning her in his gaze, "that the offer is only good for the next week. After that it will probably be too late for the child."  
He stands, and looks down at her. "It was good to see you, Ruth. I hope Towers is worthy of your talents."  
With that, he turns and begins to walk away, and something inside her dies a little.  
"Harry!"  
He stops and turns back, eyes wary and weary.  
"I meant what I said, about trusting you," she says quickly, and a shadow crosses his face.  
He weighs his words carefully before he responds. "I wonder if you realise," he says slowly, "that your professional trust in me is based on years of working closely with me. You know the man who sat in that office inside and out. But you've never allowed yourself to get to know the man that I am outside the office. I do wonder, some days, what would happen if you ever allowed yourself to do so?" He gazes at her, eyes infinitely gentle, before he nods slightly and walks away. And she is left alone on the bench, with only the echo of his words as company.

- 0 –

_Half an hour later  
The Grid_

When Ruth is led into the conference room, she is met by the sight of Erin, Dimitri and the Home Secretary gathered around the table. And on the screen at the end of the room, an image of Harry and herself seated on the bench. So Harry was right about the surveillance. She takes her time to make her way to a chair and once seated, says somewhat snippily, "I see you don't need a report from me. You've already heard every word."  
Erin smoothly ignores her attitude. "Yes, we heard. But we still need your impression."  
Ruth's gaze lifts to Dimitri, who smiles regretfully. She wonders what he thinks about the personal bits of the conversation between Harry and herself. He had a ringside seat, after all, to the events surrounding John Bateman and the Albany file; had seen what Harry was willing to do to save her. She swallows.  
"You heard my impression," she says wearily. "I trust his professional judgement."  
"That hasn't always been the case," Erin remarks, watching Ruth closely.  
Ruth glares at her mutinously, but says nothing, and Erin moves on after a beat.  
"So you think the offer is real."  
"…I think Harry believes the offer is real. It's impossible for me to say any more than that based on the available information," she responds, ever the analyst but feeling like a traitor all the same.

Towers now weighs into the conversation. "This could be the currency we need to strengthen the weakening relations with the Americans. They've been looking for this man for almost thirty years."  
Erin nods, and Ruth smiles cynically. She knows that Towers is right; the level of trust between the two countries have weakened of late, what with the Prime Minister's attempts to stake Britain's independence on the international playing field. But still, she feels that Erin is capitulating a tad too quickly to the politician's wishes.  
"So we go ahead," the Section Head says, looking at Dimitri. "I'll liaise with the Cousins, set up the operational details."  
"Do you think it's wise to include the Americans from the start?" Ruth asks, concerned. She's not sure she wants to entrust Harry's safety to the gung-ho approach normally adopted by the CIA when it comes to terrorism. "Would it not be better to handle the operation ourselves, and simply deliver Mughniyah to them once we have him?"  
Erin looks to Towers, who states firmly, "I think we should leave the operational details to the spooks, Ruth. Let's you and I return to the Home Office and let them do their dark work undisturbed."  
She stares at him, rendered speechless by his patronising tone. Anger flares bright behind her eyes and she snaps, "You're going to gamble with Harry's life, so I would like to know that everything is being done to safeguard him."  
It is Dimitri who answers. "I promise you that every effort will be made to keep him safe, Ruth." He turns to Erin. "Who's going to babysit?"  
And all of a sudden Ruth sees her chance. "I will."

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

_London, the Grid_

A stunned silence meets her words, and she remembers that they have all heard what passed between her and Harry earlier. She lifts her chin defiantly.  
"I'm not sure I can spare you," Towers says, and when she looks at him she can see he is preparing to make a stand on this. She wonders why it is so important to him that she doesn't go.  
Erin's gaze moves between the two of them and the image on the screen thoughtfully. "Actually, that's not such a bad idea."  
When Towers glares at her, she explains, "I think the chances are less that Harry will try to lose the babysitter and do his own thing if it were Ruth."  
The Home Secretary is taken aback. "Why on earth would he do that?"  
Erin smiles, and to Ruth's surprise there is a hint of admiration in it. "Because he doesn't trust us, and especially not the Americans; because he has possibly formed an emotional bond with Jamil Berbera because of the sick girl; because he _can_. Take your pick, Home Secretary. You've worked closely with him for two years – you know he doesn't take well to orders he deems to go against his moral code."  
Towers is silent for a few seconds. He stares at the image on the screen as he thinks things through - it has been frozen at a time when Harry's head is turned toward his companion, his eyes tender as he gazes at her. She, in turn, is staring straight ahead, her hands folded tightly together.  
"Fine," he snaps as he gets to his feet. "Ruth can babysit. But keep me informed every step of the way."  
He leaves without looking at anyone.

- 0 –

_Next day, 09:00  
The Grid_

Ruth sits quietly at the table as they wait for Harry to be escorted to the Grid. She wonders what he thinks about that – about having to be escorted to the place he had ruled for so many years. Perhaps she should have volunteered to fetch him from the lobby. Erin's voice breaks through her thoughts.  
"Listen, don't tell Harry about the involvement of the Americans."  
Ruth's head snaps up. "Why not?"  
"I understand he takes a dim view of them. Don't give him a reason to misbehave."  
When Ruth begins to shake her head, Erin adds firmly, "It's an operational decision, Ruth. It's not negotiable."  
She is pulling rank, and there is nothing Ruth can do. She gives a curt nod.  
At that moment the door slides open and a broadly smiling Dimitri ushers Harry in. They are followed by Tariq and the new technical officer, Calum Reed.

Harry's gaze lands on her and a small frown settles momentarily between his eyes. He's not sure why she is here, and it puts him on his guard immediately.  
Erin steps forward and greets him warmly. She stops short of fawning over him, though, and Ruth considers that a good move. Harry has never been impressed by such displays. Once they are all seated, Erin gets straight to the point.  
"Sir Harry, we are interested in the information you are offering. We're going to launch an operation against Imad Mughniyah."  
Harry looks at Ruth, eyes dark and unreadable, and she wonders what he is thinking. After a beat he turns his attention to the woman who has replaced him. "What about the sick girl? Are we going to stick to the agreement to treat her?"  
Erin nods immediately. "You have my word."  
Harry stares at her for long seconds. "Hmm," he finally murmurs, enigmatically.  
His attitude ruffles her. "I have a small daughter myself," she states strongly. "I won't go back on this."  
"I have no doubt about your sincerity, Ms Watts," Harry says, "but when you sit in that office where I used to spend my time, you are not always free to keep your promises."  
Erin flushes, but doesn't respond, and Harry moves on. "Good then. As soon as we are on our way to Mughniyah, the girl will be delivered to our consulate in Beirut. I think it would be wise to have a doctor on standby to accompany her on the flight over."  
Erin nods. "Of course. Dimitri, can you take care of that, as well as having an emergency flight on standby?"  
She returns her attention to Harry. "When might we expect your source to lead you to Mughniyah?" There is a hint of challenge in the words; a subtle reminder to Harry that she is in charge of the operation.  
A flash of amusement crosses his face. He has always had a soft spot for people with sass. "I am to fly to Algeria tomorrow and make my way to Tamanrasset in the Hoggar Mountains. It's a town deep in the desert near the border with Libya. He will pick me up in the square the next day and take me to Mughniyah."

There is a loaded silence, and a feeling of dread settles in Ruth's stomach. Algeria is one of the few places on the planet where neither Britain nor the CIA has any influence. It will be impossible to get a Special Forces team into place in the time available, and it severely limits their options.  
"He's in Algeria," Erin confirms icily, being the first to recover the power of speech.  
"Apparently," Harry responds, unruffled.  
"You've known this all along, and you chose not to share the information with us, thus denying us a few extra days to make the necessary arrangements," Erin grinds out angrily. "I have to tell you, Sir Harry, that I am not amused by that."  
Dimitri glances at Ruth, before both look at their former boss worriedly.  
Harry remains silent for long seconds, his eyes on Erin unblinkingly. Ruth can see a few drops of sweat begin to form on his upper lip. He is angry, but when he speaks, his voice remains deceptively calm. "When should I have told you? When you suspected me of being a deluded former officer, so desperate to get back into the fold that I would fabricate intelligence? Or perhaps when you sent Ruth to debrief me and hopefully unsettle me to such an extent that I would shamefacedly admit to fabricating said intelligence?" After a beat he adds, "I gave you what you needed to make an evaluation as to the veracity of the information."  
He can feel Ruth's eyes on him, but refuses to look at her. He still wonders why she is part of this meeting. If the aim is to keep him unbalanced, it is working, and that makes him angry. More at himself than anything else.  
Erin takes a deep breath and makes a visible effort to control her emotions. "You don't trust us; I can understand that after the way the Service has treated you. But we need to cooperate fully if we are to make a success of the operation. So, is there anything else you have concealed from us?"  
"No," Harry says immediately. "I will be taken to the place where Mughniyah lives, and I will wear a tracker. What happens after that is up to your discretion."  
Erin studies him intently before she nods. They seem to have reached some sort of truce. "All right. Who will Berbera introduce you as?"  
"An arms dealer willing to deal with the devil."  
"Will Mughniyah not recognise you?" she enquires, all business now.  
"No. He never saw me. He has no idea who I am."  
Erin considers for a moment, then turns to Calum. "Make sure we've backstopped Sir Harry's cover to the ends of the earth."  
The techie nods, and Harry relaxes slightly as he asks, "Who will babysit?"  
He feels the tensing in the air before Erin answers.  
"Ruth will."

He thinks he must have misheard, until he notices the way they are all watching his reaction. Cold rage pushes up into his chest, and he has to fight the impulse to get up and throw something.  
"Absolutely not," he almost snarls, not bothering to hide his anger. Out of the corner of his eye he sees hurt flicker across Ruth's face, so he explains, "It will be dangerous. Algeria is not a safe place for westerners, especially ones with connections to Intelligence. I will not allow you to put her in such peril just because you don't trust me. Choose someone else or the whole thing is off."  
Ruth can't help the feeling of warmth that spreads through her at the words; dear, wonderful Harry, still trying to protect her despite everything. "I volunteered, Harry," she interjects quietly.  
He slowly turns his head and stares at her in astonishment. "Why?"  
_Because I can't bear the thought of you walking out of my life once more._  
The realisation comes to her, sudden and unbidden, and she blinks a few times. A small smile curls around her mouth as she says, just as quietly, "Perhaps I feel I owe you that much."

Erin glances at Dimitri as the two former spooks watch each other wordlessly, a thousand things seemingly communicated by nothing more than a look, a softening in their faces. In that moment the deep connection between them is there for everyone to see.  
"All right," Harry says eventually.

- 0 –

_Same day, late night  
Ruth's house_

Ruth can't sleep. After tossing and turning for an hour, she gives up and gets out of bed. She takes the book she is reading into the sitting room and switches on the gas fire before settling in the corner of the sofa. Outside the window her neighbours' houses are dark. Resolutely she opens the book, but after rereading the same paragraph three times she gives up. Even beautifully written prose will not distract her from the source of her disquiet tonight.  
Harry.  
She wonders if he is also lying awake, thinking similarly confused thoughts about her, but somehow she doubts it. He has always been much more sure about his feelings for her than she has-  
Actually, that isn't quite true. She has never doubted her adoration of him. She has been enamoured with him for so long, that she can no longer remember what it feels like not to love him. What she does doubt, is whether it can work. Harry, however, seems not to have any such doubts. He appears to see a shared future as the cure for all their ills, whilst she… can only see them drowning under all those ills. It infuriates her that he can think it so simple. When has anything in their lives ever been simple? How can he not see all the dangers that will await them? But now, after what he said to her on the bench yesterday, she is beginning to wonder whether he does see all the dangers, but simply refuses to let it rule his life. Perhaps he is approaching the vexing problem of them in the same way he used to approach tricky operations – if the rewards are big enough, dare to risk. Don't play safe. And more often than not those risks came off. It is exactly what he is doing with this operation as well. He is taking a huge risk with his own life, because he believes the potential reward to be worth it.  
She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the cushion. "Bloody man," she murmurs affectionately. Always so many questions where he is concerned. And he is right – she knows the man who inhabited that glass-walled office on the Grid inside and out. But the man he becomes once he closes his front door behind him each night, _that_ man she has never allowed herself to know, too afraid that she will lose herself completely in him.

She is startled out of her reverie by the trilling of her mobile. It is never a good sign if it rings this late, and she answers with some apprehension. "Hello?"  
"Ruth."  
There is only one person in the world who says her name like that, like an endearment.  
"Harry."  
"You don't owe me anything. You know that, don't you?"  
So he _has_ been lying awake, thinking about all that has passed between them these last two days.  
"I'm the reason you were forced out, so I do," she says, gripping the phone hard and closing her eyes. Picturing him breathing into the phone at his end.  
"No. No, you are not. John Bateman is the reason."  
It is said with quiet conviction, and she is astounded. Does he really not harbour any resentment towards her for what happened? Even after telling him it was wrong of him to love her in the moment when he made the decision to trade Albany for her life?  
"So don't come with me out of guilt or a sense of debt, please Ruth," he continues, and for the first time she can hear the suppressed emotion in his voice. "I can't bear _that_," he adds softly, almost reluctantly, and her heart aches. It is the first time he has admitted, however obliquely, that she has hurt him, and she wants to cry.  
"All right, I won't," she says, cursing the waver in her voice. She hears him stop breathing and knows he has misunderstood.  
"I'll come because I want to," she adds simply, and he exhales slowly. There is a long silence as they both process the implications of her words.  
"I'll see you tomorrow morning then," he says at last, and she smiles.  
And then he adds softly, "Sleep well, Ruth."  
As the line goes dead, she leans back against the cushions and closes her eyes.

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

_Early next morning  
Private airfield outside London_

When Ruth arrives, a number of people are already milling around the small office of the air tower. Harry is there, standing against the wall. He sees her the moment she enters, and their eyes hold. His gaze is soft and warm. Her attention moves to Erin, who is clustered around the desk along with Dimitri, Calum and Tariq. The young techie gives her a shy smile. There is a stack of passports in front of him, and Ruth knows that hers and Harry's will be among them, made out in the names of their legends. Out on the landing strip stands a private jet, which will take them to Libya.  
Erin beckons her over. She glances at Harry, but he stays where he is, watching the activity with a slightly wistful air.  
"We have secured a house in Tamanrasset for the purposes of the operation," Erin says meaningfully, and Ruth understands – the CIA has done so. She wonders if Harry suspects; he knows the limits of their access in that part of the world better than anyone, after all.  
"Tariq will provide technical support, and the two of you will remain at the house while Harry goes to the meet with Berbera. He will be on his own until he has eyes on Mughniyah."  
Ruth frowns. "But we will know his location through the tracker at all times, though, won't we?"  
There is a slight hesitation before Tariq says regretfully, "No. We can't risk anyone picking up the signal before Harry reaches the destination. As soon as he has eyes on Mughniyah, he will activate it."  
Ruth doesn't like this development one bit. If it were a trap, the response time of a rescue mission will be significantly delayed and that, she knows all too well, can be the difference between life and death. Dimitri notices her unease and says softly, "It can't be helped, Ruth. It will be just as dangerous for Harry if they realise that he has a tracker on him." He lowers his voice even more and adds, "Harry's a tough bugger, he can look after himself."

She smiles wanly, appreciating his attempts to put her mind at ease. "What happens once the tracker is activated?"  
It is Tariq that answers. "He will have two signals. If anything goes wrong, he activates an emergency signal and we send in the cavalry. If all goes to plan, he activates the normal signal and we send in a small team to extract Mughniyah with as little fuss as possible."  
Erin takes over. "The Special Forces have begun filtering into Algeria in ones and twos since last night. By the time Harry goes off with Berbera, they will be in place and ready to go."  
Ruth nods, somewhat reassured, but when she looks at Harry, she sees his mouth twitch. He isn't convinced that the plan will work, and her fears grow exponentially. Before she can say anything, the pilot appears in the door and informs them that the plane is ready. Erin turns to Harry and offers her hand. "Good luck, sir."  
Harry takes her hand without a word, and follows the pilot out towards the plane.  
Erin holds Ruth back and says quickly in a low voice, "The CIA has another house in Tamanrasset, three blocks away from where you will be. As soon as Harry leaves with Berbera, you and Tariq must meet up with them and run the operation from their house. They are providing the muscle, so they will have operational control."  
Ruth doesn't get a chance to voice any objection, as Erin immediately moves away to talk with Calum. She follows the others out to the plane slowly, greatly perturbed by this turn of events.

- 0 –

_One hour later  
CIA Headquarters in London, Grosvenor Square_

Erin leads a grumbling Home Secretary into the building.  
"We better not bugger this up, Ms Watts. We need this; we need the Americans onside, no matter what our esteemed Prime Minister says."  
"We won't," Erin reassures. "All eventualities have been planned for."  
Towers stops and looks at her searchingly. "Have they? Including anything subversive Harry bloody Pearce may do?"  
Erin smiles. "Ruth's presence will go a long way to prevent that, sir. He won't do anything that will endanger her."  
The Home Secretary looks away for a moment, before he says with quiet emphasis, "Do not let him ruin this for us. You do _whatever_ is necessary to ensure that he toes the line. Is that clear?"  
Erin nods slowly. "Yes."

They enter the building and are led to the floor occupied by the CIA. Once inside the inner sanctum, they are met by the tall figure of Alton Beecher. He greets them cordially, a spark of excitement in his eyes.  
"Hullo, Beecher," Towers responds, before looking around him with interest. He seems disappointed, and Beecher smiles.  
"Not quite what you expected? We don't leave all the high-tech spy stuff out here for everyone to see, you know."  
"No, of course not," Towers agrees sheepishly, before sobering. "Shall we get to business?"  
"Yes," Beecher says briskly. "My government is very excited – and impressed – by the information you have provided. The agent that brought the information – is he reliable?"  
Erin nods immediately; she does not want to reveal the identity of their source, so she needs to persuade Beecher that she has absolute confidence in the information. "Track record is impeccable," she says, and hopes Towers does not give the game away.  
Beecher watches her closely for a few seconds before he relaxes. "We have already agreed to give you every possible support, but I have been instructed to make sure that you understand that we will have operational command."  
Erin, mindful of her predecessor's reluctance to fully trust the Americans, says carefully, "The agreement is that you have operational command, but that you keep us informed at every step. You have yet to inform us whether you intend to take Mughniyah alive or not."  
Beecher looks thoughtful. "If possible. He could be a valuable source of information about terrorist activities in North Africa. But," he adds, and Erin feels her stomach clench, "I'm not sure that will be possible. The layout of the countryside where he is situated is unfamiliar to us. I think it more likely that they will go with a drone strike."

As they leave the building some time later, Towers asks, "Can you make sure Harry has enough time to get out of there before the strike?"  
Erin looks at him, a challenging glint in her eye, "Would it be a deal-breaker if I said no?"  
The Home Secretary sighs. "Harry may annoy and aggravate me endlessly, but I respect him too much to wish him dead. I'm asking you to make every effort to prevent that eventuality. But no, it is not a deal-breaker. Harry is a professional, he understands the risks."  
With that, he walks off, leaving Erin to stare after him pensively.

- 0 –

_Eight hours later_

_Tamanrasset, Algeria_

It is a modest house, but comfortable; built to allow for the maximum circulation of air to alleviate the Saharan heat. It is a different heat from what Ruth knew in Cyprus – dry and scorching, so that each breath burns the lungs. Earlier that day they flew into a dirt airstrip in Libya, to be met by a quiet local guide in an ostensibly beat-up Land Rover. He was a soft-spoken, inscrutable man who didn't waste words, and when he got behind the wheel she momentarily saw the bejewelled butt of a dagger flash beneath his loose-fitting clothes. She glanced at Harry, perturbed, to find his eyes on the man thoughtfully. He had also seen it, but he said nothing. The guide handed out local garb and they obediently dressed. It would not fool anyone for long that looked closely at her or Harry, but Tariq at least didn't look quite so out of place. They were taken across the border along what Ruth suspected was an established smuggling route, an impression that was strengthened when they at one stage passed a camel train accompanied by men bristling with weapons.  
"Look at me," Harry had commanded softly, ensuring that she turned her pale face away from the window as they passed the men.  
"Don't let them see your face."  
He held her eyes, and in his own she saw the steely glint she had seen on so many occasions on the Grid, when he had been locked into operational mode.

At one stage they stopped, and when she looked ahead she saw a few men with horses lounge around a barrier put across the road. Their guide looked around carefully, before opening his door.  
"Stay," he commanded, before walking the twenty metres or so to the men. Beside her Harry went very still, every sense sharpened and focussed on their surroundings. The guide chatted to the men for a while, once or twice gesturing in their direction. Finally he handed over a wad of notes and walked back to the car, keeping an easy, even pace. But his face was tense and she felt her stomach knot in fear. He reached the car without incident, and no-one spoke until they were safely through and out of sight.  
"Who were they?" Ruth asked, breaking the tense silence.  
The guide's eyes flicked to her in the rearview mirror briefly before returning to the road. "Local warlord's men collecting road tax."  
She felt a chill run down her spine; they were in a lawless part of the world, and she realised just how much she had underestimated the danger they would be in.

And now here they are, gathered around the large table in the dining room of the house, perusing an array of electronic toys Tariq has unpacked from his suitcase. Harry picks up the watch and looks at it closely.  
"The watch is probably not the best option," Tariq says, watching Harry turn it in his hands. "They may ask you to take it off before they take you to the target."  
Harry nods in agreement. "Same for mobile, belt, shoes," he says absently, his attention still held by the timepiece. "So," he continues, lifting his head, "what does that leave us with?"  
"Probably best to go with something sown into your clothing – the collar of the jacket, if you're going to wear one?"  
Ruth's eyes follow a bead of sweat as it rolls down Harry's forehead, before they move down to take in his peeved expression. Tariq realises his mistake at the same time and smiles sheepishly. "Too hot, scratch the jacket idea." He frowns and drums his fingers on the table as his gaze travels over his beloved gadgets, working out possible permutations and adaptations in his head.  
Harry's gaze lift to Ruth's, sparkling with amusement, and she suppresses a smile. It comes to her how well she knows him, can read him, his moods and state of mind.  
"Trouser button?" Harry suggests, and Tariq brightens.  
"That's a great idea. Give me a few hours to see what I can come up with."  
"Do the watch as well," Harry adds. "It can work as a decoy."

- 0 –

_21:00 local time_

Ruth has been in her room for about an hour, reading the book she brought along. She wonders what Harry is doing – he has been withdrawn since their meeting with Tariq, and her attempts at conversation have been respectfully but firmly brushed off. The house is comfortably furnished, and she rises from the chair she has been curled in and goes to the window, restless. It is not just the operation that is on her mind; here, alone in her room, she acknowledges that the close proximity to Harry has stirred up feelings that she has resolutely tried to bury for so long. All the old feelings of doubt and confusion are still there, but added to it is an exhilaration, an awareness of being alive, that she hasn't felt in too long. She has tried to persuade herself that it is the result of once again being on the front line, in the thick of the action. But deep down she knows that is not true. It is the result of being on the front line, standing on the wall, next to _him_. She stares out at the darkness of the night, so different from London. Here there are no streetlamps, forever banning the darkness. Here the stars are overwhelmingly bright, mindblowingly numerous in the clear, cold night air of the desert. She has never seen anything like it. In a corner of the walled-off yard a fire flickers, and next to it a man is seated on a log, staring into the flames. She would know that profile anywhere, has surreptitiously gazed at it many times in the past. She makes her decision.

- 0 –

He looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, his eyes black in the flickering light.  
"Ruth," he says and makes to stand, but she waves him back.  
They stare at each other for a few awkward seconds and she almost changes her mind, but there is a vulnerability in his expression that keeps her rooted to the spot.  
"May I?" she finally says, her gaze flicking to the vacant spot next to him.  
He nods, something like relief flitting across his face, and shifts slightly to his left to give her more room. She sits, and savours the warmth of the fire, stretching her hands out towards it. He doesn't say anything, but she can feel his attention focussed on her. Her arm brushes against his, and he doesn't pull away. If anything he presses his own a little closer to hers. She takes that as a good sign.  
"I've put in an offer on a house," she says suddenly. "It's in Suffolk, close to the ocean," she continues, her words almost falling over each other in her nervousness.  
Harry turns his head towards her, his eyes searching her face, looking for the real meaning behind the words. "That's good," he says cautiously.  
She rushes on, encouraged by the spark of hope she believes she reads in his gaze. "I'm tired of it, Harry. The lies, the secrets. Spying."  
"But you're with Towers now," he states, confusion evident.  
"Yes. But I'm still deeply involved in intelligence matters. And in a sense it's worse; now _I'm_ the one who has to advise on the political implications of an operation, who has to look past the human element and go against my conscience." She is silent for a moment, and then adds softly, "I don't like what I'm becoming."

Harry opens his mouth, but she pre-empts him. "What I've become since I've returned from Cyprus."  
He stares at her, concern etched in the lines of his face. "You're still the same person you have always been, Ruth. You've just become better at separating emotion from your work."  
"Yes. And I don't like it."  
"It's essential to survive as a spy," he persists.  
She laughs desperately. "Perhaps. But we should not bring it into our private lives. Which is what I have done – I've kept people I care very much about at arms' length." She looks at him beseechingly, willing him to understand.  
Just for a second, his face crumples, and he has to take a few deep breaths to get his emotions back under control. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. "That's understandable, if those people are too closely connected to your work… Perhaps, if you found someone who isn't tainted by this murky world of ours, you will find it easier."  
She feels tears burn behind her eyelids. "And what if I can't?"  
"You keep trying," he urges, turning towards her. "You can do anything you put your mind to, of that I am convinced." He smiles sadly. "If you can salvage something resembling a normal life after…everything, it will be your crowning achievement."

And for once in their convoluted history she understands him perfectly. He thinks that she believes that such a normal life is only possible without him. It breaks her heart, and she knows with sudden, crushing clarity that it is not what she wants.  
"Harry?" she says pleadingly, grabbing his hand and holding on desperately.  
The gesture surprises him and for a beat he freezes, before he closes his eyes and squeezes her hand in return.  
"Oh Ruth," he says, her name escaping on a sigh of immeasurable longing. It is only when he reaches up and wipes a tear from her cheek that she realises she is crying. Without a word he slips his arm around her and pulls her against him, and she lays her cheek against his shoulder and breathes him in. He is wonderfully real under her touch, and she can only marvel at how right it feels.  
"Tell me about your house," he invites as he rests his chin on her head and holds her tightly.  
So she does. She tells him about the green front door with the peeling paint, which she loves and doesn't want to change, and about the way the morning sun lights and warms the dining room. And she tells him about the small second bedroom, which she envisages can become his study, and feels him press a kiss into her hair in silent acknowledgement.

- 0 –

_Three blocks away  
American Centre of Operations_

The senior CIA officer runs an experienced eye over the array of equipment that's been set up in the big living room. Everything is in place – they have done well in the little time they had. He feels a flash of irritation towards the Brits, who have allowed their agent to dangle them on a string like this. He wonders who this agent is; that is another thing their allies refuse to tell them. While he can understand their reticence from an operational point of view, he still doesn't like it. He sighs and steps outside with the satellite phone in hand. Time to report in. A series of clicks on the line tells him that the encryption software has kicked in, and when the operator on the other end answers, he says, "Jim Coaver for the Director."  
He has to wait a few more seconds for the big boss to come on the line.  
"Jim, how goes things?"  
"Everything is in place, Director."  
"Good, good. I have instruction from the White House. You are not to take this man alive. A drone strike is authorised."  
Jim absorbs this. "The Brits won't be happy if their agent gets caught in the blast."  
"You need not worry about that. We have approval from the highest level of British government to go ahead. They understand the risks to their man, but the possibility that he becomes collateral damage is not a deal breaker."  
"Understood."  
He stands for a few seconds, looking up at the starry sky, feeling sorry for the poor bugger they are about to sacrifice, before he turns and goes back inside.

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

_Early next morning  
Tamanrasset, Algeria_

It is still dark outside, but the house is a hive of activity as they prepare for Harry's departure. He is to meet Berbera in the Square at sunrise. Tariq is explaining the workings of the tracker embedded in the button of his trousers as Ruth enters, and they smile shyly at each other.  
"If you twist it to the right, the normal signal activates," Tariq says, reaching a hand towards the button to demonstrate. Harry glares at him, and the techie hastily withdraws his hand from his former boss' nether regions.  
"You do it," he mumbles, his skin turning a shade darker.  
Harry dutifully twists the button to the right, and the laptop on the table beeps once and shows the location on a map.  
Tariq smiles, then says, "Now, if you turn it to the left, you activate the emergency signal."  
He looks at Harry expectantly, who does as instructed, morbidly wondering what the people he is about to meet will think about him fiddling with his trousers like this. The laptop begins to beep loudly and constantly, showing the location accurately on the map once again. Tariq switches it off.  
"Range?" Harry asks, slipping the watch of the previous day onto his wrist.  
"Two thousand miles, possibly bigger." The techie smiles and quips, "So unless they fly you out of the country, we won't lose you."  
Ruth's head jerks up, alarmed. She has never even considered such a possibility.  
Harry gives Tariq an annoyed look. "They won't," he assures her. "Berbera said Mughniyah was here, in Algeria."  
Tariq looks between them. "Right. I have to take care of some things, so I'll leave you to it."  
He nods solemnly at Harry, before he walks out of the room and they are once again alone.

For long seconds they just watch each other, and he can see her concern for his safety etched on her face. She is so beautiful to him, and he has an almost uncontrollable desire to take her into his arms. Her words of the previous night come back to him, and he takes a step closer to her. "It'll be all right," he says softly, reaching out to touch the back of her hand briefly.  
She nods and hands him his jacket with a crooked smile. "Here. Take this. You may not get back before dark."  
Something akin to fear flashes deep behind her eyes, and he tilts his head and studies her more closely.  
"Ruth?"  
She shakes her head and says hurriedly, "Will you come to see the house in Suffolk with me? Afterwards?"  
But he is not so easily distracted. He has sensed something, and the alarm bells are clanging loudly in his head. "What is it? What are they not telling me?" he persists, and she knows that tone of voice. It is the one he used so often on the Grid, the one that brooks no opposition.  
"Harry," she says, her eyes pleading with him not to put her in this position.  
If it were anyone else, he would have pressed on mercilessly. But it is her, and things have always been different with her. He relents, and leans in towards her, his eyes finding and holding hers. "I'd love to see the house," he murmurs, and brushes a kiss against the corner of her mouth.  
He turns and strides out of the room, and moments later she hears the front door open and close. He is gone, disappeared into the darkness outside, and she wants to run after him and warn him about the Americans. But she doesn't. Some vestige of ingrained duty keeps her rooted to the spot, and she hates herself for it.

- 0 –

He walks down the street unhurriedly. The first light is beginning to colour the sky to the east, and as soon as the sun climbs above the horizon the mercury will rise mercilessly. His every sense is focussed on his surroundings. He doesn't think he's being followed, but then he has been wrong before. A small part of his mind continues to dissect his conversation with Ruth, and with every step he becomes more convinced that something is going on. She is concerned about something, and she has obviously been ordered to keep it from him. To keep him in line, no doubt. He reaches the corner and pauses, taking stock of his surroundings before he enters the square. A few cars pass along the road at the far side, and a vendor is busy setting up his stall to the left. To his right a car is parked, and Jamil Berbera is leaning against the bonnet, smoking a cigarette. Harry studies him carefully, noting the steady hands, the unconcerned manner in which he looks at the vendor, and takes a deep breath. He steps into the square and walks towards his contact, who straightens up and drops the cigarette into the dust.  
"Salaam, Harry," he says as Harry draws near, and the ex-spook can read the relief in the man's face. They are both aware that the girl's life rests on them, and for a moment Harry feels intense sympathy for his former adversary. Until he remembers the images of the bombed American embassy, of the bodies torn apart by the force of the blast that this man helped plan and execute. So he nods stiffly and walks to the passenger side.  
"Best not to linger," he says shortly, aware of that tingling feeling at the back of his neck once again.

Thousands of miles above them, a keyhole satellite moves into place just as the car moves off, snapping its first image of the dusty Toyota Land Cruiser as it turns out of the square and heads towards the N1.

- 0 –

_CIA Operations Centre_

"Did we get a face?" Jim Coaver asks. He stands, hands on hips, and surveys the three monitors they have set up anxiously.  
"No," a man seated at the table answers. "Satellite got into position too late for that."  
Jim presses his lips together and once again curses the Brits' unwillingness to share the identity of their asset with them.  
"Okay." He reaches for a headset and slips it on. "Patch me through to London."  
He waits until the man nods. "London, this is Command."  
A female voice confirms reception, which he recognises as Erin Watts'. He wonders once again why his old friend Harry Pearce was forced out, and for a moment hankers for the old days. He's pretty sure Harry would not have sacrificed his agent quite so willingly, especially to an American bomb.  
"London, your man is en route. We are feeding you the satellite images as they come in."  
He hesitates, then adds, "My orders are to launch the second Mughniyah's presence is verified. Confirm once again that your government has authorised the drone strike."  
There is a long silence before the answer comes.  
"Confirmed."

- 0 –

_Three blocks away_

Ruth enters the room where Harry slept, feeling like an intruder. She has told Tariq to pack everything and be ready to leave at a moment's notice, and has taken it upon herself to pack Harry's things. But there is no need; his small grip stands by the door, already packed. Even the bed is neatly made, and she smiles, overcome by a surge of adoration. Dear, wonderful Harry, ever the professional.  
Except.  
She thinks back to the previous night, and knows that she is the exception. Where she is concerned, he allows the private man to guide his actions, and not the man that occupied that office on the Grid for so long. He has shown her glimpses of that private man, if only she were willing to see them. She breathes out, and makes a sweep of the room, even though she knows he won't have forgotten anything. On her way out she collects the grip and places it by the front door, next to her own slightly bigger one.

- 0 –

_Same time  
Beirut, Lebanon_

Dimitri stands on the first floor of the consulate, a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes. He is tense; the consulates are always a tempting target here, and if this whole thing is an elaborate plot from the former Hezbollah leader, surely the handing over of the sick girl will be a part of it. If it is a trap, things are bound to get very unpleasant. He makes another sweep of the street as his comms crackle.  
"Dimitri, this is London," Erin's voice says in his ear. "Update please."  
"Nothing yet," Dimitri responds, just as a local taxi turns the corner and stops.  
"All right. Our asset is underway to the rendezvous, so if this is for real, the girl should be brought to the consulate soon."  
"I think we may have something right now," he murmurs, watching as a woman helps a frail-looking girl out of the car.

He checks the street again – no-one seems to be paying the pair any attention. His focus returns to the woman and girl, who make their way slowly towards the gates of the consulate. Dimitri reaches for the two-way radio at his elbow.  
"Captain, about fifty metres down the street to your right. Stand by."  
There is the scurrying of heavily armed security men down at the gate, getting into position.  
"I want them both checked for explosives as soon as they are inside," he instructs before scanning up and down the street again. Still nothing out of the ordinary.  
A sudden burst of the radio brings his attention back to the pair moving slowly down the street.  
"The girl is down, repeat, the girl is down."  
On the sidewalk, he can see the woman bending over the girl, trying to lift her to her feet. When he brings the girl into focus, she is deathly pale and unnaturally still. He looks at the woman, and there are tears streaming down her cheeks. It decides him.  
"I'm going out."  
By the time Erin finds her voice he is already halfway down the stairs.  
"No, Dimitri! We don't know if this is a trap. Do NOT leave the consulate grounds until we're sure."  
He doesn't answer, but sprints out the front door and towards the gate.  
"Open up, Captain," he orders before adding, "I'm going to fetch them. Cover me."  
"Dimitri, no. That's an order!" There is a desperate note in Erin's voice, and his thoughts go back to a night a few weeks ago, sharing dinner with her and her cute young daughter, Rosie, and the realisation of a plethora of possibility. He squashes it quickly.  
"Sorry, Boss," he says, before slipping through the gate and running to the woman.  
Behind him there is a chorus of many weapons being cocked, and a few curses follow him down the street.

He is still some distance away when the woman's sobs reaches his ears. She looks up at the sound of running feet approaching, and her eyes widen in fear when she sees it is a Westerner.  
"I'm the Greek," Dimitri pants as he reaches her side and kneels next to the girl, reaching out to feel for a pulse. It is there, alarmingly faint and erratic.  
The woman's face lightens at the confirmation that this is the man she was told to ask for at the consulate.  
"Praise Allah," she exclaims querulously, before tears start anew.  
Dimitri glances at her and smiles reassuringly. "She is alive," he says, more for the benefit of the comms than the woman.  
He carefully scoops the girl into his arms and straightens. "Follow me. As fast as you can," he orders, and begins the journey back to the gate at a brisk walk. The woman trots along at his heels, clutching a bag to her chest. From up close the girl looks terrible; her skin is clammy and cold to the touch, her breath shallow. Dimitri picks up his pace. And then many things happen at once.

He hears tyres screech behind them, and there is a warning shout from the Captain at the gate. He doesn't waste time to look around.  
"Run!" he yells over his shoulder, and sprints towards the gate as fast as he can, cradling the girl against his chest. He has no idea whether the woman is following. In front of him the Captain steps outside the gate and levels his weapon at something behind Dimitri. The car roars up to them and a bullet slaps into the wall above Dimitri's head. He is aware of Erin's frantic voice in his ear, before he blocks out everything but his destination. The Captain opens fire, and seconds later Dimitri is past him and through the gate. He turns to see the Captain shielding the woman with his body as he continues to shoot at the car until it careens around the corner and out of sight. Moments later he has dragged her inside and the gate slams closed behind them.  
"Is she all right?" Dimitri asks anxiously, surveying the woman that has collapsed against the wall, crying loudly.  
"I think so," the Captain says, fingering a bullet lodged in the middle of his bulletproof vest.  
When he looks up, Dimitri nods at him, a moment of wordless mutual respect passing between the men.  
"How did you know that car was trouble?" Dimtri asks curiously, hoping against hope that this is not an indication that the whole thing is a trap.  
"It's been cruising past the Consulate for the last month now," the Captain explains. "Budding young Hezbollah cadres like to do that, hoping to catch us unawares and write their names in the annals of history. When they saw the open gate, they saw an opportunity."  
Dimitri nods, relieved. "Did you get that, Erin?"  
"Yes." There is a slight pause before she asks, "Is everyone all right?"  
Dimitri looks down at the girl in his arms. "For now. The girl is alarmingly weak, Erin. If we wait until we have confirmation that we got Mughniyah…"  
Erin does not hesitate. "Bring her and the woman in. Now."  
Dimitri begins to smile, but Erin is not finished. "And Dimitri? We will talk about your insubordination when you get back."  
He looks down at the girl again, and feels no remorse. "Yes, Boss," he says cheerfully, before hurrying inside, where the doctor is waiting.

- 0 –

_Tamanrasset, Algeria  
CIA Operational Headquarters_

Two hours has elapsed since she said goodbye to Harry, when Ruth and Tariq is shown into the Ops room. A man with grey hair and slate grey eyes comes over with a friendly smile.  
"Welcome, friends. Uncle Sam extends his gratitude for finding this asshole. We've been looking for him since 1983. Jim Coaver," he introduces himself, and Ruth immediately recognises the name. Harry's CIA counterpart in Germany during the eighties. Harry's friend, by all accounts.  
"We have your mysterious man on visual, come and see," he invites, and leads them over to the screens set up on the table. On the middle screen a car moves along the black ribbon of the N1. From the height of the satellite the landscape either side of the road appears featureless, bleak.  
"They've been moving steadily south," Coaver says, before moving over to a map on the wall, "which means their destiny is probably somewhere near the Mali border."  
"That makes sense," Ruth says thoughtfully, "taking into account the activity of the _al-Qaeda in Maghreb_ in that country. Mughniyah is probably providing assistance to that movement."

For the next hour nothing out of the ordinary happens. They watch the car move inexorably closer to the border. It doesn't stop once, and only two cars pass from the other direction during that time. It is a lonely, desolate part of the world. Ruth sits quietly, her thoughts preoccupied with Harry and the future. Can it be that their time has finally come? Last night felt so, so right, a moment of perfection in their imperfect lives. And like a drug, she craves more of that feeling. Harry isn't perfect, and neither is she, but perhaps, together, they can be more, can be better. Can be happy.  
"Sir," a man at the console says, and she lifts her head to see the car turn from the N1 onto a dirt road. Immediately an arrow of dust plumes out behind it, making it even easier to track its progress.  
"That road twists through these ridges," the man at the console explains to Jim, pointing out the undulations on the 3D air photos of the area on a second screen. "We may occasionally lose sight of them in there."  
Jim frowns. "For how long?"  
"Oh, no, only a few seconds at a time as they pass through some narrow gorges. The satellite isn't right above them, so the ridge will shield them from view."  
Mollified, Jim nods. "Okay, we will see from the dust whether there is a change in their movement in any case."

As the car reaches the ridges, it slows down significantly due to the rough terrain, and they watch it twist and turn as if in slow motion. Twice they lose sight of it, but never for more than half a minute, and then it is through and speeding along merrily on the open plain. After twenty more minutes it enters Tin Zaonatine, a small village about five miles from the border.  
"Stand by," Jim says, and there is a sharpening of the tension in the room. Tariq sits huddled over his laptop, watching for the signal that Harry will activate. Ruth's stomach clutches, and she has to concentrate on keeping her breathing regular.  
The car pulls up to a gate of a walled property, and a few seconds pass before the gate swings open.  
"Enter coordinates," Jim murmurs, and the man at the console taps on a keyboard.  
"How far out is your team?" Ruth asks, never taking her eyes from the screen on which they can see the car park next to the house.  
Jim holds up a hand and they watch as two men disappear into the house. Two minutes pass excruciatingly slowly, in deathly silence. Suddenly, Tariq's laptop bleeps loudly, making Ruth jump.  
"It's the normal signal," Tariq breathes, looking up at Jim. "Mughniyah's presence is confirmed."  
Jim moves over to the man at the console and leans over his shoulder.  
"Entering launch codes," he intones and taps a string of numbers into the computer.  
Ruth looks at him in consternation. "Launch codes?"  
He ignores her, hits the Enter key after a slight hesitation.  
"Launch confirmed," the man at the console says. "Locked on target," he adds, and Ruth's heart stops.  
"No no no no," she mumbles, and grabs Jim's arm, forcing him to look at her. "What are you doing?" she demands urgently.  
He looks at her in confusion. "Drone strike," he says, and when she pales he narrows his eyes. "Did your people not tell you?"  
"You have to stop it," she urges, aware that her voice is rising but unable to control it. "Harry's in there!"  
Jim stares at her uncomprehendingly.  
"Harry Pearce is in that building. Please," she begs, tears beginning to gather in her eyes.  
The colour drains from Jim's face. "Harry?! _Hal_ is the asset you people are willing to sacrifice? Jesus."  
"Please," Ruth says again plaintively, and suddenly Jim understands. They heard the rumours about his old friend giving away a state secret to save a woman's life. He looks at the screen tracking the drone's progress and closes his eyes.  
"I can't."  
A tear escapes and begins to roll down Ruth's cheek. "No," she says.  
Jim takes a step towards her, and she is vaguely aware that every eye in the room is focussed on them. "I can't, Ruth. It's too late."  
They stare at the satellite images in desolated horror, and seconds later there is a bright flash.

As though she hears it from underwater or a long distance off, Ruth registers an inhuman wailing sound. It is only when Jim reaches for her that she realises the sound is coming from her.  
"Target neutralised," the man at the console says quietly, and on the screen in front of him there is only a heap of rubble where the building used to be.

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

_Tamanrasset, Algeria_

"Oh sweet Jesus, I didn't know. I didn't know," Jim says over and over, trying to take hold of Ruth, but she fights him off. She stumbles away, with no idea where she is going, only knowing that she can't be here. She can't stand here and look at the image of the heap of rubble that holds whatever is left of the man she loves. Jim lets her go.  
"Keep her in sight," he orders Tariq, ignoring the tears in the young man's eyes, focussing instead on the anger burning bright inside of him. It was Harry, and they didn't deem it necessary to tell him. He moves over to the console and stabs the comms button.  
"London?"  
"This is London," Erin Watts' voice says.  
Jim takes a deep breath. "Target has been neutralised." He pauses, then adds savagely, "Your asset didn't make it out."  
He hears Erin sigh sadly. "That is regrettable."  
Jim laughs, and his anger shines through bright and strong. "Regrettable. Jesus, and you people think _we're_ callous. You have just made me part in the death of Harry Pearce! So whilst my government thanks you for delivering Mughniyah, I have only one thing to say to you: f_uck_ you."  
He yanks the comms cable from its socket and tosses it onto the table. "Pack up. We must be out of here in thirty minutes."

- 0 –

_London _

Erin drops her head into her hands. She feels deep regret and, yes, a sense of shame – could she have fought harder on Harry Pearce's behalf? Her predecessor is a legend in the annals of MI5, and she was in awe of him. Admired him. And now she has contributed to his death. Her thoughts go to Ruth, and she wonders how she is coping. She on some level expected Ruth to break protocol and tell Harry about the Americans, and perhaps this influenced her willingness to accept the political directive so easily-  
She shakes her head angrily at herself; it is no use looking for excuses. She made the choice, and she has to bear the responsibility. With a deep sigh she reaches for the phone.

Towers answers on the first ring. "What news, Ms Watts?"  
"The target has been destroyed successfully, Home Secretary. I imagine the US Ambassador is on his way right now to deliver their thanks in person."  
Something in her voice alerts him. "And… Harry? Did he get out safely?"  
Her silence is the only answer he needs.

- 0 –

_Three days later  
London, Ruth's house_

She sits on the sofa, cradling a cup of tea, staring unseeingly ahead of her. Her phone rings and she glances at the number – Towers. Again. She ignores it. Again.  
As soon as she and Tariq got back to London, she marched straight to his office and tendered her immediate resignation. He tried to protest, to explain, but she refused to listen. Harry is dead, callously offered up as a disposable sacrifice, and to add insult to injury it was done to pander to the Americans. He deserved better from his country, from Towers. And from her. Her own guilt is crushing, and contributes to her attitude towards Towers. She is acutely aware of this, but she doesn't care. She is done with Towers, done with duty and sacrifice and being so very logical about everything. Tears prick once again, and she blinks rapidly.  
Oh, Harry.  
They so nearly made it to that cottage by the ocean.

Her phone rings again and she is about to hurl it across the room when she notices that it is an unidentified caller. The number itself is vaguely familiar, and it takes her a few seconds to place it. It is a number she called a few times during the recent Israel/Palestine peace talks in London, and belongs to Levi Cohen, Harry's old friend from Israel. He is probably looking for Harry, and her heart breaks yet again.  
"Hello?"  
"Miss Evershed? This is Levi Cohen."  
"Yes?" She closes her eyes, dreading his next words.  
"I have some information for you," he begins, but she gently interrupts.  
"I'm sorry, Mr Cohen. I no longer work for the government. If you have information, you need to contact the Home Secretary."  
"I have information for _you_, Ruth. Not your government."  
"What about?"  
He doesn't answer immediately, and worry gnaws at her insides. At last he says, "Be in Gethsemane gardens in two days' time, at six o'clock in the evening. Bring Dimitri Levendis with you."  
"I don't underst-" she begins, but he overrides her.  
"That which you believe to be lost forever, is not."  
He disconnects before she can answer, and she slowly lowers the mobile to her lap.

- 0 –

_Three days earlier  
Tamanrasset, Algeria_

Harry gets in next to Berbera, but his focus remains on his surroundings. He can't shake the feeling that he is being watched, but for the life of him he can't see anything or anyone out of the ordinary.  
"Are your people watching us?" he asks brusquely, and his companion glances at him before returning his eyes to the road.  
"You think I will gamble with my granddaughter's life?" he demands, anger seeping through.  
For the first time Harry turns to look squarely at the Lebanese. "Well, you don't mind blowing up civilians," he counters sharply.  
Berbera's hands tighten on the wheel. "Are you a civilian?" he asks. "Just because someone doesn't wear a uniform doesn't mean they are civilians."  
Harry scoffs incredulously. "Are you saying that every person in Britain or America must be viewed as a combatant?"  
Berbera does not hesitate. "They are legitimate targets. Their government makes them so."  
"And yet you are quick to bleat about any civilians killed accidentally when we or the Americans try to get to people like you," Harry retorts, before frowning slightly.  
The Lebanese says something, but he is no longer listening.

The dagger on the guide.  
He has seen a dagger like that before, in Bob Hogan's office in Grosvenor Square.  
Ruth's unease.  
His continual sense of being watched.  
Ruth foisting his jacket on him.  
He retrieves the jacket from the back seat and feels through all the pockets. He finds it in the inner breast pocket – a receipt from Foyles for a book. The title is _The American Way_, and he knows.  
"Jamil," he asks, "do you feel like martyring yourself today?"

Harry explains briefly about the involvement of the Americans, and his belief that they are likely to go for a drone strike the moment he activates that signal to confirm Mughniyah's presence.  
"We are probably being tracked by a keyhole satellite right now," he says, resisting the urge to look skywards.  
"What do we do?" Berbera asks as he looks around the empty, flat terrain either side of them.  
Harry thinks about it. "Is there any place along our route that we will not be visible from above?"  
"The Cliffs," Berbera says immediately. "Unless they are right above us we should be invisible for thirty seconds or so, on two occasions."  
Harry looks at him, framing his next question carefully. "And is there anyone you are willing to sacrifice, that we can send in our place?"  
The question is met with a loaded silence. Harry knows that the answer will indicate once and for all whether Berbera is playing him.  
"Yes," the Lebanese says at length, with a hint of self loathing. "There are two foot soldiers I can use."

- 0 –

_One hour later_

"Slow down," Harry advises as they turn onto the dirt road. "Our dust will betray us if there is a significant change in speed."  
Berbera nods curtly, not looking at his passenger. Since he has made the call to bring the two men to the Cliffs, he has not looked at Harry once. Now he says out of the blue, "They will keep their word, won't they? About helping my girl? All this, it cannot be for nothing."  
"Yes," Harry responds with a lot more conviction than he actually feels, "they will keep their word." He looks intently at the Lebanese and adds, "If you come with me willingly, I will negotiate on your behalf and they may even allow you to see her from time to time."  
A small smile curls around the man's lips. "Yes. Please."  
Harry nods, thinking about everything this man is giving up to save his granddaughter, and wondering what he would have done in the same situation. It is an impossible question to answer.  
"I will do my utmost," he promises, sincerely.  
"…We are close," Berbera says and nods at the ridges rising out of the heat waves on the horizon.  
Harry watches as the earth seems to lift ever higher as they close in, forming into the Cliffs.  
"Slow right down now," he cautions, and takes off his watch.

Ten minutes later they enter a narrow gorge, the cliffs towering high above them on either side. Ahead of them a man, crouching in the shade of the cliff, straightens and moves to the side of the road. Berbera slows down a bit more as they reach him and he jogs along the side of the car until he gets the back door open and hops in. A strong smell of horse enters along with him. He is young, the face unfamiliar to Harry. Berbera speaks rapidly to him in Arabic, and Harry only catches a few words. He tenses, unsure whether the Lebanese is actually telling the man the story they agreed. He may just as well be telling him to slit Harry's throat.  
"Hand him the watch," Berbera orders suddenly in English, and Harry holds it out to the young man who takes it without a word.  
They are nearing the second place where the cliffs narrow overhead, and Berbera says something to the young man, who answers in the affirmative.  
"We get out up ahead, and take the horses they have come with."  
Harry nods wordlessly and squints forward, his hand on the door handle. As they enter the overhang Berbera slows to crawling pace, and the next moment his door is open and another man jogs next to the car. Harry flings open his own door and gets out, thankfully without falling down. He watches as the Lebanese hops out, still holding the wheel, while the other man jumps into the driver seat behind him. Berbera steps away and the car picks up speed again gently. They stand in the shadow of the cliff, motionless and barely daring to breathe, until the sound of the car dies away.

It is the Lebanese that finally breaks the silence. "This way," he says brusquely, and leads the way back from where they have come.  
Harry follows, very aware that he is alone with a terrorist in the middle of the desert. "What did you tell them?" he asks curiously.  
"What we agreed. That we suspect you may have been bugged and didn't want to take the chance of betraying our leader's position."  
"You explained about the watch?" Harry persists.  
"Yes. He must give it to Mughniyah, and when he turns the timer to the right, there will be a recorded message on what you can offer in terms of weapons."  
When he turns to glance back at Harry, the ex-spook recognises the look. He has seen it in the eyes of every man and woman that he's persuaded to betray their country or beliefs during his long career. It speaks of weary capitulation, of resigned shame.  
They all have a breaking point, no matter which side of the divide they are on.  
The thought comes to him suddenly, along with Ruth's beautiful face, thrown into sharp relief by the flickering flames of the fire. In this moment he wants nothing more than to get back to her, to share the little cottage in Suffolk with her.  
"Get us over the border," he says to Berbera as they reach the horses, "and then I will call a friend to come and fetch us."  
"Your friend is reliable?" queries Berbera as he swings into the saddle.  
"Yes, he's reliable," Harry says with a little smile. "…He's Israeli."

- 0 –

_Present day  
Gethsemane Gardens, Israel_

Ruth and Dimitri sit in a car parked about fifty metres from the entrance, watching the comings and goings. It is a quarter to six, and they are early. Dimitri feels highly uncomfortable about the whole situation; he is going in blind, but for the life of him he can't think of a reason why the Israelis would want to ambush them. Beside him Ruth folds and unfolds her hands continuously, but otherwise she is remarkably calm. For her sake he hopes that this is not a hoax; that Harry is truly alive. He is still haunted by the bottomless grief in her eyes when she returned from Algeria, and felt her silent reproach more acutely than most, even though it was not directed at him. They had failed Harry, in his mind, and he had told Erin so in no uncertain terms. Though the Section Chief is careful not to show it to the others, he can tell, in their more private moments, that she has been deeply shocked by the whole experience, and senses that next time she will not be quite so willing to simply follow the orders of the politicians.

Ruth's voice breaks through the silence. "How is the girl?"  
"She is responding well to treatment – she'll make a full recovery," Dimitri responds, thankful that at least they have kept their word on that aspect. He has gone to visit the girl and her mother a few times, taking it upon himself to see that they are settled and their needs taken care of. He owed Harry that much.  
"That's good. Harry will be pleased," Ruth says with a small smile, and he does not have the heart to caution her against unfounded optimism.  
Instead he points out, "The place is crawling with Mossad operatives."  
Ruth looks around them, as though she is becoming aware of their surroundings for the first time. He suspects that until now she has only been looking for one particular figure, one familiar and beloved face.  
"They're not being subtle about it," she responds slowly, easily able to pick out the intelligence officers from the normal people. "Surely that's a good sign?" She looks to Dimitri for confirmation and he smiles encouragingly.  
"Let's hope so. Shall we?"

- 0 –

As they near the gates, the two men standing before them watch them carefully. Evidently satisfied that they have not secreted an arsenal of weapons about their persons, one of them signals behind him and the gates, closed since half-six, open to let them through.  
"Follow the path that curves to the right," one of the men says as they draw level with him. "By the fountain at the foot of the Mount."  
Dimitri nods and steers Ruth to the right as soon as they are inside. He feels her elbow tremble slightly under his touch, the only betrayal of the tremendous strain she is under.  
"Not long now," he murmurs, hoping fervently that it will indeed be their irascible former boss they will find at the fountain.

Ten more minutes at a brisk walk, and at last they round a bend and enter a clearing. In the centre a fountain glitters in the setting rays of the sun, and beside it three men stand waiting. Dimitri immediately recognises Levi Cohen. The man next to him is a face he's seen in many a fuzzy surveillance photo. Jamil Berbera. And the third man, standing with shoulders back and hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on Ruth, is Harry. A weight lifts from Dimitri's soul and he hears Ruth utter a soft 'oh' beside him. He can't help the broad smile that breaks over his face as they come to a stop in front of the trio.

Harry's gaze lingers on Ruth for a few beats longer. He wants to step forward and fold her into his arms, but this is not the time and place, in front of these other men. Instead he focuses on Dimitri and gets straight to the point.  
"The girl?"  
"She and her mother are safely in London. She's responding well to treatment. She'll be fine." He addresses the last few words to the Lebanese, who closes his eyes in relief.  
Harry nods. He is thankful; some part of him feared that the politicians would not keep their promise.  
"Here is the deal I'm offering," he continues. "Jamil is giving himself up to MI5. He will willingly subject to being incarcerated and questioned. In return he asks for permission to see his daughter and granddaughter from time to time."  
Dimitri's eyes flick to Levi. "And what does Mossad want?" he asks bluntly, making Harry smile.  
"Mossad – and indeed Israel - will be satisfied if you share any pertinent information you gain from this man with them," Levi answers.  
Dimitri doesn't really have to think about it. "I think we can manage that," he agrees with a smile.  
"You will let him see his granddaughter?" Harry presses, mindful of just how much Jamil has given up for the chance to do so.  
"I will make sure of it," his former officer promises solemnly, and Harry nods, satisfied.  
"I heard what you did in Beirut," he says to Dimitri. "That was good work. You have all the right instincts to be an excellent officer. Always trust in them."  
He holds out his hand and the younger man shakes it, surprised and gratified by the praise of his former boss.  
"Thanks, Harry." He pauses before daring to ask, "What will you do now?"  
Harry shrugs and his eyes stray to Ruth's face as he says, "Travel. See the capitals of Europe at my leisure. And then, who knows, perhaps I'll get a chance to settle down, somewhere by the sea."  
His eyes linger on Ruth for a while longer before he turns to Levi and shakes his hand. "Thanks again, old friend."  
His gaze shifts to Berbera and the two men contemplate each other wordlessly. After all that they have experienced in the last few days, words seem superfluous. The Lebanese nods, and Harry smiles slightly, before turning on his heel.

As he passes Ruth, he pauses momentarily and reaches for her hand. He inclines his head towards her and she feels his lips brush her ear as he murmurs, "Thanks," before depositing a slip of paper in her hand. And then he is gone, walking out of her life once more, making his way down the path with long, even strides.  
She looks down at her hand, rooted to the spot by the speed with which everything is happening. It is the payslip she left in his jacket, hoping against hope that he would find it in time to save himself. Tears well up and she blinks rapidly, turning to look after him, but he has already disappeared around the corner.  
She takes a ragged breath. "Dimitri…" she says, and finds his eyes on her, filled with understanding.  
"Go," he says with a small smile, and she impulsively steps forward and kisses him on the cheek.  
"Take care of yourself," she says, before she turns and flies down the path.

- 0 –

She catches him outside the gate, as he is about to get into a Range Rover parked at the curb.  
"Harry!"  
He turns immediately at the sound of her voice, and she stops in front of him and drinks him in. So vibrant, so alive, so Harry.  
"Take me with you?" she asks, almost shyly, wondering if she should have considered the possibility that it is not what he wants.  
But then he steps forward, and his arms go around her, and his lips find hers, and all her doubts evaporate.

It is their time, now, after all.

_Fin_


End file.
